Paula M. Puddephatt
I was born in Berkshire, UK and now live in Hampshire, UK. more »
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Paula M. Puddephatt Poems
I draw their spirits close to me and breathe, and still I find, there's something to believe. I need their energies to make me strong. I hear the subtle echoes: Samhain's song.
Dreams and Illusions
coloured lights swirling through her mind tonight
You trust. You hurt. I know the score, so why do I let myself care? Why do I try at all? Must my emotions always win? By now, I must be on my final spin.
Mary and the Horse Thief
I could be said to be falling in love with a horse thief, in spite of myself.
Attachment and Obsession
She said: 'Don't let them get inside your mind.' I heard her words that way. Now she's inside herself, and my reality's defined by my interpretation, and I slide
The Legend of Lucy Lightfoot
At seventeen, so radiant, hair raven black, eyes emerald green - the local lads, they just don't stand a chance. Lucy's heart is in the village church -
Confused and Broken
Can't analyse the type of love I feel when all I want to do is scream: 'Don't die.' It's not like Cancer. It just seems unreal - and, even though, sure, I've been close myself, why
And even now - I can't believe it, but the potential's there - that someone else could get inside my mind, and make me care.
The ravens in my mind are dying. The people in my world are lying. Nothing's for real - but scarlet on steel. I'll endure the pain, until I can feel
Her maternal love was wasted. No-one hears her when she cries through the night for her lost babies, and a life so full of lies.
She grabs at each distraction, in the hope that she might find something that can ease the pain, and fill her heart and mind.
See Me Through
And if fresh fantasies might see me through, and give my world a lighter, brighter shade or hue - must we still question what the mind can do, or simply accept that, here and now, I write these words for you?
If false floors and trap doors, and those fences of barbed wire, could not keep me away -
She bleeds dark secrets. There is no way back. She doesn't want to find one, anyway. The pressure is intense. She starts to crack. Somehow, she makes it through another day.
Comments about Paula M. Puddephatt
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I draw their spirits close to me and breathe,
and still I find, there's something to believe.
I need their energies to make me strong.
I hear the subtle echoes: Samhain's song.
Nobody feels my reason - hears my rhyme.
My rhythms only work in my own time.
My words - they might make sense in my own mind.
My friends need other words - ones I can't find.
There is an angel buried somewhere near,
who told me that there's nothing left to fear.
Now, all my friends who've passed or gone away -
this is one life. What more is there to say?
In this one ...